


speak low if you speak love

by blueparacosm



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, SIKE, You Thought, feels n stuff, maybe a little angst but not really, straight!bellamy?, there's a clexa baby for those interested, this is stupid im totally okay with it though, vague secksies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7071817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueparacosm/pseuds/blueparacosm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Again?” He groans, unable to force his prying eyes away from the scene. He feels like his skin is aflame, and acid is churning in the most fragile sections of his throat.</p><p>   A ruffled tuft of brown hair bounces into view from the creaking couch, and another body appears behind that one, a contemporary manifestation of the Vitruvian Man.</p><p>   Bellamy Blake has had a shit day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	speak low if you speak love

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so you guys know the article "Straight guy worries he's being homophobic to gay roommate, realizes he's fallen in love with him"?  
> If you don't, here it is:  
> http://www.gaystarnews.com/article/straight-guy-worries-hes-homophobic-gay-roommate-ends-falling-love/#gs.i6Xfia0
> 
> Anyways this is what that's based off of bc i thought it was funny and wonderful thanks pls enjoy my guy

 

The door rattles in it’s frame, perhaps cowering in fear. The freckled arm that slammed it quakes just the same.

Bellamy Blake has had a shit day.

 _“Again?”_ He groans, unable to force his prying eyes away from the scene. He feels like his skin is aflame, and acid is churning in the most fragile sections of his throat.

A ruffled tuft of brown hair bounces into view from the creaking couch, and another body appears behind that one, a contemporary manifestation of the Vitruvian Man. Murphy runs a hand over his hair, sleeking it back down as his eyes dart frantically around the room. The blush creeps up his pale neck. Vitis Coignetiae, Bellamy thinks. Murphy would’ve said that. Crawling red vines, right up the throat. His fists clench as the longer-haired man quirks up a questioning brow. “Is there a problem, Murph?”

Bellamy sighs, kicking off his muddy shoes and pushing them by the door. He stares at the dried flakes of mud in the carpet, the waves of tension in the room piercing his skin and entering his veins, pulling his body tight and stiff. He takes in a deep breath and looks over his shoulder, Murphy furrowing his brows together and tucking loose strands of hair behind his ear, the man with the swollen lips curved into a punchable smirk, all eyes on him. “None of my business, just had a bad day, sorry. I was just going to my room anyways.” He forces a smile. He feels like a snake. Some shifting occurs on the couch, before Murphy and the stranger have relocated to the bedroom. Bellamy’s nails leave little crescent moon imprints in his palms. His arms tremble.

Bellamy Blake has had a shit day.

Mumbling obscenities under his breath, the man stomps through the kitchen, grabbing a jar of peanut butter and a spoon on his way through, and slips into his own room. He doesn’t even like peanut butter.

He flops down onto his bed, eyes tracing over the cracks in the ceiling as he feeds himself spoonfuls of, what, juiced peanuts? Some insect parts? He doesn’t care. His day couldn’t get much worse if he had to drink his own piss, frankly.

Bellamy’s mind whacks away at every weed growing in the aftermath of the mental shit-rain of the day’s events.

It goes a little bit like this:

First, he steps out of the door, and the sun is out and the beautiful potholes of his beautiful street are all beautifully dry, and ten minutes from the museum, the angels above take The Grandest of Pisses. It just pours, and pours, and Bellamy thinks it’ll never stop. When he finally gets to work, he’s soaking, and his abundant curls are plastered to his forehead in the most unattractive way known to mankind. “The museum’s general manager and local fucking Swamp Monster reporting for duty.” He grumbles to himself, violently shoving another spoonful of whatever-the-fuck into his mouth.

This incredible introduction to his Friday is then followed by a child. Now, one might say, “but Bellamy _loves_ children!” This is true, yes, but this child in particular happens to be the sole suspect of the blue rock-candy lollipop stuck to Vincenzo Camuccini's “The Death of Caesar”, Bellamy’s proudest artifact. Although it’s not the original, and very replaceable, he still finds himself heartbroken.

Then, he heads home. Up the stairs, up the stairs again, and up the stairs on more time, and the door opens. There’s two men on his- their- couch, instead of one, just like yesterday and the day before. And for a reason that he just can’t put his finger on, that may have just been the worst part of his day.

He turns over in his bed and screws the lid back on the now half-empty jar, letting the sticky spoon clatter down onto the bedside table. He runs his clammy hands over his face and stifles a scream of frustration.

He’s never had a problem with Murphy bringing home people before, but in recent weeks, seeing him and someone new on the couch every week has stirred up something ugly in the pits of his stomach.

A light bulb flickers on above his head, and something akin to panic rises up his throat. What if he feels so angry and so disgusted because the people Murphy brings home are... men? He’s not like that, _is he?_

Bellamy sits up abruptly, making a beeline for the bathroom. He slams the door behind him and stares at his disheveled reflection in the mirror. His hair has dried frizzy, his dressy shirt is wrinkled and sweat-stained. He stares at himself hard, a million questions running through his mind.

He’s never had an issue with Clarke dating women or Miller dating men, he invited Murphy into his apartment knowing full well the man was pansexual, but often found himself with men. He’s never thought of himself as someone capable of discrimination- so he takes in a deep breath and decides he’s just had a bad week is all. It’s probably fine. He’s a good person, right?

But in that precise moment in the continuum of space and time, his ears are forcibly graced with the sound of Murphy’s raucous laughter from the room on the other side of the apartment, and he imagines the two men together, and the thought of that shaggy-haired shitbag making Murphy laugh infuriates Bellamy. His blood boils, and something inside of him pulls him, magnetic, to the other boy’s door. He stands there dumbly, unthinking, the only thing separating himself and a world of potential mistakes a slab of dark wood, decorated with a “Beware The Dog” sign that Murphy’s just too proud of. Bellamy’s heart momentarily softens at the thought, and he can’t find it in himself to be mad at his dorky roommate. He lowers his fist and steps back from the door, when a low sigh elicited by god-only-knows-what seeps through the crack beneath it- and suddenly his palm is against the wood and he’s slamming it there, again and again. He’s temporarily deafened by his anger, and he’s not sure how many times he “knocks”.

 _“What now, Blake?!”_ Murphy practically screams, and Bellamy, for lack of better judgement, throws the door open and steps inside. He takes in the scene like a breath of pollution, choking, burning, acidic. Murphy sits with a blanket wrapped around his bare shoulders, and the man accompanying him is stretched out on the right side of the bed, both flushed and looking disoriented.

“You guys are being kind of loud,” is all he says, and it comes out much less harsh and threatening than he had intended. He sounds unsure of his claims, and he is.

Murphy’s staring at him, and he’s staring back. Murphy looks angry. He probably is.

He shakes his head, and Bellamy watches the fringe fall into his eyes.“Finn, my number should be in your phone. I’ll uh- I’ll see you later.” The shitbag, Finn, nods in understanding and smooths down his clothes and hair, moving to leave the bedroom and knocking Bellamy’s shoulder into the doorway on his way out.

He looks at the boy on the bed. His face is beet red and his hair’s a mess, his lips swollen and his clothes askew, and Bellamy’s disgusted by it. All of it.

Silence. Quiet. Silence. Quiet.

“Why are you being an asshole?” Murphy says, so bluntly that Bellamy physically stumbles backwards.

“Come again?”

Murphy raises a thick brow. “You’ve never had an issue with me bringing dudes home before this week. What’s wrong with you, huh?”

Bellamy’s tongue ties itself into a perfect constrictor knot, (he knew he shouldn’t have taken up boy scouts.) He’s at a loss for words.

“It’s just, I don’t know-” “Is it because they’re guys?”

Bellamy goes red, widens his eyes to the size of moons. “What? No- I’m- I’m not like that! You know that, Murphy!”

He sounds unsure of himself. He is. He sounds desperate.

He is.

“That’s what they all say. I knew I shouldn’t have moved in with a straight guy,” he says, serious for this first time since Bellamy’s known him. Murphy’s eyes glisten as if he’s holding back tears, and Bellamy’s insides burn, his hands shake. It isn’t like that. He isn’t like that.

The silence lasts for what seems like a few eternities, before Murphy stands abruptly and drags a duffel back out of the closet. He starts shoving ratty t-shirt after t-shirt into it, slamming sneakers and shredded jeans into the empty space above them. “What are you doing?” Bellamy asks, and his shaking voice betrays him.

“I think I’ll just get out of your hair for awhile, yeah? Give you some time to figure out whatever the fuck your problem is, decide if you want me gone for good or not.” He says, all in one breath, and the older man’s heart plummets.

“What?”

Murphy shoves past him and makes his way for the door, cheeks flushed and wet, and Bellamy’s frozen in place. He imagines stopping him there, grabbing his arm and pulling him back inside- and he’s gone.

He’s gone.

Bellamy Blake has had a very, _very_ shit day.

 

***

 

“I don’t know what to do, O.”

Lincoln approaches as quietly as his heavy feet will carry him, gently placing a bowl of salad in front of his brother-in-law. It’s drenched in Italian dressing, just the way Bellamy likes it.

The Whittle-Blake household always has salad.

“You got a problem on your hands, big brother,” Octavia says through a mouthful of iceberg lettuce. “Yeah, so, will you help me?”

“With what?”

“With my problem, O!”

“Oh, uh- tell him how you feel.” She says, motioning to an invisible crowd.

“I don’t _know_ how I feel, Octavia! That’s the problem!” He practically shouts, slamming his palms down on the polished-to-perfection table. His sister doesn’t bat an eyelash. She’s getting used to it. He breathes in deep, counts to ten. “Sorry.”

She continues, ignoring his tantrum.“Well, that’s not my area of expertise.” She holds her fork up in the air as if to make a declaration. “Lincoln!”

Bellamy visibly cringes. Tensions between himself and his in-law have been, well, heightened, lately. Lincoln pads into the dining room with bare feet and drops down into the chair across from Bellamy, the giant dining table centerpiece of Octavia’s creation blocking him from view.

“You like him.”

“I what?”

Lincoln sighs, scooting his chair closer to the table. “You’re not homophobic, you’re jealous.”

Octavia screams in delight, and Bellamy feels light-headed. “Oh, I knew it! He’s right, you know! This is the greatest love story of _all time_ , big brother! The reason it makes you mad when he has guys over is because-”

Bellamy groans, dropping his head against the mahogany with a dull thud. “-because I like him.”

 

***

 

“I don’t know what to do, Clarke.”

The blonde woman places a comforting hand on his shoulder. “You know you’re welcome to stay here anytime you need a place, Murphy.” He gives her his best apologetic smile, and she rolls her eyes and tugs him inside by them hem of his shirt.

She closes the door behind him just in time, because he’s fallen against it after a rather powerful charge from a rather tiny attacker. “Uncle Murphy!” Clarke noticeably beams as that ever-hardened, empty look in Murphy’s eyes softens, and his rough exterior melts. “Hey, Tia.” He grins, patting the cloud of curly black hair atop her head the way he always does. She makes grabby hands, the universal signal for “Pick me up!”, and Murphy obliges.

“I’ll make some tea.” A soft voice calls from the kitchen, and Murphy recognizes the retreating blur of brunette as Lexa- a very kind but very scary woman. He thanks her anyways.

The Griffin-Woods household always has tea.

Little Costia points towards the living room, and Murphy salutes, carries her there, before dropping her from his arms to the couch with a _“Boom!”_  Clarke laughs from behind him, making the man jump. She places a hand on his chest and eases him down onto the couch, sitting next to him and setting her eyes on her daughter.

Clarke knows he won’t loosen up here unless she forces him, so she does.

Costia stacks letter blocks, spelling out the simplest of words, but Clarke applauds her each time. Murphy watches the interaction with a watery feeling in his chest, wondering numbly what it would be like to have a family of his own.

But who is he kidding, he doesn’t even have a bed to sleep in.

“It’s Bellamy, isn’t it? I thought you two were finally hitting it off.”

“He’s mad at me for bringing home guys.”

“Bellamy? No!” Clarke gasps indignantly, scrunching up her face in disbelief. “He’s not like that, or at least I thought so.”

“So did I,” Murphy whispers, staring blankly at the carpet. If his best friend doesn’t accept him, who will?

“Are you moving out for good?” Clarke asks softly, gently, as if speaking to a wild animal. He feels like one.

“That’s for him to decide.”

Lexa enters then, approaching cautiously and placing a glass of sweet tea between Murphy’s trembling hands. “Four spoonfuls of sugar, just how you like.” Murphy gives her a lopsided grin, and the woman just smiles, shaking her head as she finds a place near her daughter on the carpet and begins working on a block castle, a true Filippo Brunelleschi, Bellamy would’ve said.

They sit in thoughtful silence for a moment, aside from the soft, unintelligible blabbering coming from little Costia.

“Stop letting him decide.”

Murphy looks up from his cup of sugar. “What?”

“You always let him decide,” Lexa elaborates, her eyes never leaving the castle under her hands.

Clarke sits up straighter at that. “Murphy, she has a point. You could walk in there and tell him to tell you the truth. Make him.”

“With please.” Tia reprimands.

“With please.” Clarke amends.

Murphy stares into the depths of the teacup, feeling his hands clench around it in a white-knuckle grip. _“Make him.”_

 

***

 

“Bellamy?”

The man stops pacing. His eyes flicker to the open window. He could do it.

No, Bellamy. Open the door.

Open the door.

_Open the door._

He opens the door.

“Bellamy, I-”

He’s staring. He’s staring at the long strands of brown tucked into a bun atop Murphy’s head in that stupid way he does it, where all the pieces are sticking out in disarray. He’s staring at the pale, milky skin behind the too-wide rips in his jeans. He’s staring at the pools of dim arctic blue that are pouring into him. He’s staring at the creeping red vines, right up the throat.

He’s been waiting for this.

“Are you even _listening_ to me?”

“What?”

Murphy hisses, pushing his fingertips into the inner corners of his eyes in frustration. “What did I expect, coming here...” he whispers to himself.

Bellamy stares at him dumbly, never having the right words these days.

“Look, Bell, I came to say that I don’t have anywhere else to stay, but if you don’t want me here-”

“I want you.”

Murphy looks up so fast, he swears he hears something crack. “What?”

“I want you here.” Bellamy amends quickly, stuffing his quaking hands into his pockets.

Murphy narrows his eyes. His pretty, pretty eyes. “Before that,” he says, with his pretty, pretty mouth.

Bellamy’s brain screams. “I said _I want you_.”

Murphy swallows, shifts his weight from side to side.

“I _like_ you.”

Murphy stares at the ground, shoving his trembling hands into his pockets. Suddenly, there’s a finger and a thumb on his chin, tilting it up, and he squeezes his eyes closed. It’s a trainwreck, and he doesn’t want to watch.

“Murphy, look at me.”

He shakes his head, gritting his teeth.

“I didn’t like you bringing guys home, because I wasn’t one of them. I want you to stay.”

Murphy’s eyes snap open. “Do something about it.”

The confident Murphy he knows, the one that performs concerts in the shower and never fails to speak his mind, the one that gets every phone number he wants and can’t be convinced that he’s wrong, is standing in front of him again. And Bellamy feels small. Very, very small.

He swallows hard and looks down at Murphy’s feet. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

“With please.”

The taller man glances up again, and there’s that playful smile to Murphy’s eyes. There’s that rare little wrinkle at the corners, and Bellamy wonders if he stares into his dimples long enough that he might disappear. He’d like very much to disappear in Murphy’s smile, he thinks.

But that’s weird. Stupid.

“I’m going to kiss you now, please.”

And he hears laughter, and there’s a weight lifted off of him with the heaviness of Murphy’s arms on his shoulders, his hands in his hair. A press of lips, chapped and contrasting soft. Brushing noses, upturned and contrasting sharp. Hands on his cheeks, freckles fading into palm lines. It’s all a blur.

Murphy sinks back down to his heels and stares up at Bellamy, and he’s suddenly overcome with something akin to joy. Something like happiness. It’s overwhelming, it’s enveloping him.

Bellamy wraps the boy in his arms and pulls him inside, collapsing with him onto that rickety, godforsaken couch.

_“I want you to stay.”_

 

 

 

  
_(fin.)_

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be funny but it is not but im , its, whatever
> 
> i wrote this in four hours and im not used to modern aus please let me live
> 
> thanks for reading pals love you all


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